


Can't Pretend

by breezyyy



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Female on Male Rape, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-03 12:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4100923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breezyyy/pseuds/breezyyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come on,” she whispers darkly into Adam's ear, noticing his discomfort but choosing to ignore it, or maybe just misinterpreting it all together. “You’re supposed to like this. Guys like you can’t say no to a girl like me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings/tags before reading! This is my first time writing something quite this fucked up. I hope I did okay. If not, feel free to yell at me.
> 
> Adam/Behati is present in this fic but the focus is still primarily Shevine.

Adam has partied long enough and hard enough in his lifetime to know how much to drink is too much, when to slow it down and when to speed it up; he knows his limits, knows which beverages will knock him on his ass and which ones will get him just a little tipsy.

Tonight, he doesn’t even care.

He just lost another season of the Voice to Blake and, okay, that usually doesn’t bother him this much but he’d been so sure— _so fucking sure_ —that Matt was going to win, that it was going to be a landslide victory, because he was just that goddamn talented. It just seemed like the most obvious outcome. Maybe he was stupid for thinking it was possible when he knows how zealous country fans are but he’d done it anyway and now he feels more than a little disappointed.

It’s the after-party and the whole place is thrumming with good vibes; everyone is laughing, dancing, drinking, and having the time of their lives. Even Matt seems chipper despite having lost, smiling while sitting in the corner of the room with Craig.

Behati had made him take it easy in the beginning but once she left and went home for the night, Adam had downed everything in sight, drinking until he was numb enough not to feel anything when he looked over and saw Blake’s dumb, happy face. He’d even partaken in a little of the weed that had been floating around the crowd, just enough to make his body feel that wonderful warm floating sensation.

He’s not mad at his friend, not at all—he’s just feeling stupid, and bitter at America, and very, very drunk.

It hurts knowing he did his best for his team and it still wasn't enough.

He makes his way over to a couch at some point in the back of the room, flopping down on it and sighing. His stomach is churning a little to let him know that he’s reached his limit for the moment which is fine by him; everything is buzzing and spinning just enough to make his brain shut up for a while, which is what he was going for in the first place.

A pair of smooth, tan legs suddenly appear in his line of vision and he blinks, his gaze traveling upward to reveal a dark-haired, beautiful woman standing in front of him clad only in ripped jean shorts and a button-down shirt.

Even as drunk as he is, he can still make out her wide-blown pupils and the glazed look in her eyes.

Whatever she's on, it's good stuff.

She smiles down at him, high as a kite, and then perches herself on his lap, wrapping an arm around his neck. “Hey, handsome,” she says sweetly, a hand reaching up to slide through his hair.

Adam might be blind drunk but he still has enough sense to remember that he’s _married_ and under no circumstances would he ever cheat on his wife, no matter how drunk he is.

He can’t exactly push her away, uncoordinated as he is right now, but he lets himself fall to his side on the cushions and crawls away from her until his back is pressed against the armrest, his legs splayed out in front of him. “Not interested,” he mumbles tiredly, throwing an arm over his eyes to let her know that he’s done, that he doesn’t care.

There’s a weight on his legs and he jerks upright, opening his eyes in surprise.

She’s on top of him again, peering down at him like he’s some prized possession she just wants to touch and leer at. “My name is Brooke,” she informs him, smirking as her fingers trace light patterns on his stomach.

Adam scowls. Doesn’t she know what ‘no’ means?

“Get _off_ ,” he demands, shoving her away gently with his arms.

She pushes back immediately, her features twisting into something unpleasant and a little scary as she puts him flat on his back on the couch, fingernails digging into his shoulders. “You don’t have to be rude,” she says, frowning at him.

“I’m married,” he tells her, and that should be enough reason for her to leave him alone but apparently it’s not.

Her mood sobers quickly and she’s smiling again, sweet and playful, her grip on him lessening. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” she whispers in his ear.

Adam flinches and stands up to get away from her—because _no_ , that’s completely out of the question and he would never do that to Behati—only he moves too fast and he’s too drunk and everything swirls around him, the room tilting at an odd angle and he ends up flat on his ass on the floor, disoriented and confused.

Brooke is on him again, straddling his legs with her hands on his shoulders, her face dangerously close enough to his that he can smell her strawberry-scented chapstick. “Come on, baby, let’s go upstairs and have some fun, huh?”

She leans in and kisses him right on the mouth.

Her tongue brushes against his lips and her teeth bite at him and Adam freaks, shouting “No!” and pulling back, trying to push her off. He makes quite a ruckus, knocking something off the coffee table in his haste to scramble out from under her. The room is full of people and it was probably too crowded for anyone to notice his plight before, but now people are starting to turn and stare. He can feel their eyes burning straight into him and he blushes, embarrassed for his outburst.

Brooke is still trying to kiss him when suddenly she’s gone and Adam has to blink a few times to figure out what happened. He looks up and relief washes over him.

Blake—wonderful, _wonderful_ Blake—is standing there like a hero out of an action movie or something, gripping Brooke’s arm and gently but firmly pushing her away from Adam. She scowls and kicks at him but Blake is obviously stronger and he gives her a rough shove when she tries to bite his hand.

Brooke stumbles away, glaring at them both before she turns and slinks back into the crowd.

Adam lets Blake help him to his feet, sighing out a quiet thank you that has Blake chortling at him.

“Poor buddy,” Blake says, adjusting him so that he’s sitting on the couch again and brushing something off his shoulders. “You literally have to beat the girls away with a stick, don’t you?”

Adam frowns because he really doesn’t—like, _sure_ , women ogle him and stuff, but no one’s ever fully come onto him like that, especially not after he tells them he’s not interested.

He doesn’t know what to think of it, can only blink hazily at the room around him in deep thought.

“You okay in there?” Blake asks, tapping his head lightly with a knuckle.

“Mmm,” Adam says, snuggling back into the couch and into Blake’s side. “Very drunk.”

“I can see that,” Blake laughs. “You need a ride home? Want me to call Bee?”

“No, she’s sleepin’,” Adam slurs, making a face because the last thing he wants is for Blake to call his wife in the middle of the night and tell her to come pick up her stupid drunk husband. He’ll call a cab later, or hitch a ride with Pharrell, or something. “I gotta pee.”

Blake snorts but helps him stand back up, keeping a big hand on his shoulder when he wobbles on his feet. “Can you make it up the stairs on your own?”

Damn. The bathroom is on the second floor, isn’t it?

He squints in that direction and decides that yes, he can make it. “Yep,” he answers, pushing away from his friend to prove it. He nearly falls over but regains his balance and pushes through the crowd, aiming for the staircase on the other side of the room.

“Call me if you need help zipping your pants!” Blake calls out from somewhere behind him, laughing.

Adam gives him the finger over his shoulder.

\--

He has to cling to the railing and practically crawl on all fours, but he does eventually make it up to the bathroom.

It takes him a long while to find it because there are a ridiculous number of rooms upstairs (most of them bedrooms) but he locates the bathroom at the far end of the hall and shuts himself inside.

His reflection in the mirror looks like absolute shit but he pays it no mind, stumbling over to the toilet and propping himself against the wall so he can relieve himself without falling the fuck over.

He’s still so blissfully drunk and his stomach has calmed down so he thinks maybe he’ll have another drink when he goes back downstairs, or maybe take another hit of the bud going around, whichever he sees first.

He zips himself back up when he’s done (joke’s on Blake because he didn’t even need help with that, the stupid fucker) and after washing his hands and running his fingers through his hair to make himself look a little less wild and a little more like a sober human being, he opens the bathroom door to go back outside.

That’s as far as he gets.

Something smashes into his face the moment he steps out into the hallway, knocking him backwards, blood splattering down his face and shirt. Pain blossoms in his temple and he lands on the bathroom tile in a crumpled heap, his ears ringing and his vision quickly darkening.

Just before he loses consciousness, he sees a pretty face hovering above him with brown hair and what looks to be a baseball bat clutched in her hands as she looms over him.

Shit.

\--

He wakes up slowly.

The first thing he notices is how much his head is throbbing; it hurts like a motherfucker, white hot pain shooting through his skull when he moves even an inch so he resolves not to do much of that just yet.

There’s blood in his left eye, sticky and wet.

He can’t move.

Panicked, he opens his eyes. His arms are tied to the headboard up above his head and his feet are secured down at the bottom. He can’t fucking _move_.

He’s on a bed in just his underwear, his clothes laying in a pile in the corner of the room.

It’s muffled but he can still hear the party going on downstairs, hears the excessively loud bass-heavy music and all the people chattering away so he assumes not much time has passed since—since whatever the fuck happened.

Someone had hit him, right?

It certainly feels like it.

Yeah. He’s pretty sure someone hit him, with—a baseball bat?

Jesus.

Flashes of memory hit him all at once; pretty brown hair, wild green eyes, a satisfied smirk.

His heart picks up a dangerous rhythm when it all comes rushing back and he gasps at the sudden flood of memories, his breath catching in his throat as he realizes what happened.

That fucking crazy chick— _Brooke_ —that had been her name, yeah, that’s who had been standing over him just before he blacked out. She’s the one who put him here, right? That would make the most sense. What does she want?

He tugs experimentally at the restraints holding his limbs down. They’re bound tight with some kind of cloth and he can hardly move at all but he keeps pulling at them anyways, hoping they’ll give out and he can get up and get the fuck out of here, but they don’t loosen no matter how much he yanks on them and he feels panic welling up in his chest, his heart beating ferociously against his rib cage.

He can’t get away, not without help, but there’s no one around. Everyone is downstairs having fun; they won’t be able to hear him over the music even if he screams as loud as he can.

He has to try anyway, a frightened cry for help already working its way up his throat as he keeps tugging and tugging at his restraints, desperate to get free, desperate for someone to hear him and come save him from whatever the fuck this is.

A hand clamps down over his mouth before he can do so, fingers digging into his skin painfully.

“Shhhh, baby,” a sickly-sweet voice whispers and then there she is—Brooke, appearing out of nowhere and sitting on the edge of the bed like he’s a sick child and she’s his mother. He shivers. She lays her other hand on his chest, comforting and soothing, and he tries to jerk away despite his restraints not letting him.

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” he tries to growl, but it comes out muffled and incoherent with her hand over his mouth like it is, and she just cocks her head at him prettily, her eyes ablaze.

“I don’t want you making any noise,” she tells him, her voice strict as she looks down at him, her hand pushing down harder around his mouth enough to make him wince, “or I’ll have to hit you again.”

She gestures to the baseball bat leaning up against the nightstand, caked partly with what he has to assume is his own blood, judging by the stickiness on his forehead.

Christ.

She’s fucking crazy.

Just as he contemplates biting her, she pulls out a sock and stuffs it inside his mouth before he can do anything, practically jamming it all the way back into his throat. He tries to yell in protest and push it out with his tongue but all that comes out is a muffled shout, a scared whimper once he realizes what this means for him.

He can’t move, he can’t even scream now.

There’s no way out, not unless she lets him, which—which seems pretty unlikely.

She moves off the bed and turns her back for as long as it takes for her to cross the room and lock the bedroom door. Adam pulls at his restraints again, breathing heavily through his nose when his muscles are practically stretched taut with how spread out he is, with how tightly she’s bounded him.

He can’t—he doesn’t know what to fucking do; he’s still pretty drunk and his head hurts so much, his stomach rolling with unease, and he’s completely fucking helpless, at her mercy to do with whatever she pleases.

And it seems like she either wants to hurt him or… or something else, something he’d rather not think about.

Maybe she just wants to scare him, he thinks a little hysterically, a little hopefully. Maybe it’s revenge for turning her down earlier.

He feels so sick and he’s starting to get really freaked out. Even if he could get loose, what would he do? Hit her? No way. She could easily turn that around on him, make him look like the assailant and her the victim.

It's fucked up.

He doesn't know what to do.

She’s all curves and sweet-smelling perfume as she crawls back up on the bed and gets on top of him, settling on his thighs. “I’ve been watching you,” she purrs, her tone seductive but it does absolutely nothing for him, just spikes his anxiety until his chest is heaving with fear. “I’m gonna make you feel good, so much better than anyone else you’ve ever had.”

“Fuck off!” he snarls but it comes out too muffled to be discerned, but she seems to understand anyways because her brow furrows and she looks perturbed at his words.

“Still so noisy,” she admonishes, reaching over into the bedside table drawer and pulling out a roll of duct tape.

She seems to have this all planned out and that scares him even more, how prepared she is.

He tosses his head to the side to try and avoid her using it on him but she grips him by the hair and holds him in place, tearing a large piece of tape off with her teeth and slapping it over his mouth. “There we go—nice and quiet for me, now.”

She sounds so _nice_ it’s completely unnerving, how she seems to think this is consensual, how she must think he’s enjoying this.

He tries screaming again but it’s no use—it was muffled before but now with the duct tape there’s no way anyone will ever hear him, not unless they stand right outside the door—and Brooke pays him no mind, merely sits back and runs her fingers lightly through his hair, rubbing at the sore spot on his scalp where she had hit him.

It feels good but he tries to turn his head again anyways, not wanting her hands on him, trying to tell her to stop without using words. Then she leans forward and kisses his neck, biting at the skin there, her hands brushing up and down his sides, and his struggling turns more desperate.

He writhes beneath her and tosses his head back and forth, dizzy but determined to dislodge her but he’s too constrained and she’s easily overpowering him just by sitting on him.

It makes him feel even more helpless.

He moans when she sucks a hickey onto his collarbone and he thrashes even harder, panicked, because he doesn’t want this—he has a _wife_ , and she’s the only one who's allowed to touch him like this, so intimately and dotingly. It makes him sick to have someone else touching him while his wife is at home waiting for him to come back.

Tears press at his eyes and he squeezes them shut, ashamed.

What will Behati do when she finds out he let another woman kiss him? If she leaves, he won't survive it.

“Such a shame your big friend down there had to interrupt us earlier,” Brooke says, licking a wet stripe along his cheek and making him shiver. “I would have sucked you off right there in front of everyone.”

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, trying to twist away from her, trying to ignore the spark of arousal that shoots through him at her words. She ventures a hand down to stroke him through his underwear and fuck— _fuck fuck fuck_ he hates this, he hates his body so much right now. His dick twitches in his briefs and he tries to will it into stopping but the more she touches him the harder he gets and really, how fucking shitty is he? He’s the worst.

He shouldn’t be responding to the touch of another woman and he knows it’s not his fault, knows it’s just a reaction, but it still makes him feel horrible, that delightful pleasure swirling inside him when she touches him just right making him want to cry in shame.

She kisses him some more along the neck and he turns his head but she just follows along, nibbling at the curve of his jawline and tugging his earlobe with her teeth. “Come on,” she whispers darkly in his ear, noticing his discomfort but choosing to ignore it, or maybe just misinterpreting it all together. “You’re supposed to like this. Guys like you can’t say no to a girl like me.”

Adam presses his cheek into the pillow beneath him, feeling cold and exposed. He _can_ say no and he _is_ saying no, only she’s not listening, she just keeps going despite his silent pleas for her to stop.

What can he do? He has no idea.

Her hand sneaks into his underwear and he whimpers at the sensation, throaty and pained, trying to kick his legs despite they’re too stretched out and all he manages is to lift his knees up off the bed a couple inches.

She grips his cock tight, almost painfully, pumping him to full hardness despite the tears on his face and the anguished noises he’s making, her lips grazing the spot behind his ear that always makes him shiver.

He feels powerless but he still tries to kick her for all he’s worth. He’s so achingly hard and he wants to shoot himself, wants her to club him over the head with that bat until he’s dead because he’s the absolute fucking worst.

The more he moves, the more the room starts to spin but he keeps trying anyways, desperate for her to stop.

She must get fed up with his squirming because she releases him suddenly and her hands shoot up to his throat instead, her thumbs crushing down hard on his windpipe. His eyes widen as his air supply is cut off immediately and he tries in vain to draw in a deep breath, the sock in his mouth and the tape on his lips making it even more difficult.

Dark spots dance around his vision when she squeezes harder and he feels a sickening pressure in his head. His instincts kick in and his body starts jerking feebly in an attempt to throw her off but she’s stronger than she looks and he’s utterly useless as he is, all the fight in him leaving as he feels himself getting weaker.

He’s dying—Brooke is killing him, that’s all he can think about as he struggles for air. He’ll never see his wife again.

She releases him just as his vision starts to tunnel and he sucks in a huge breath through his nose, wheezing and coughing harshly around the gag in his mouth, his heart hammering wildly in his chest.

He feels so weak, just on the edge of unconsciousness.

She yanks his underwear down around his thighs while he’s busy trying to breathe and he doesn’t even notice until her hand is on his dick again, her fingers cold but practiced as she fondles him.

“Mmph!” he shouts, sobbing and turning his head so he doesn’t have to look at her. He’s full-on crying now, his face a blotchy mess of miserable tears. He wants her to stop. He’s never wanted anything more.

He just wants to go home.

“Such a pretty little fuckboy,” she coos, using her free hand to unbutton her blouse. She slips out of her shirt and makes quick work of her shorts, leaving herself only in her bra and panties. 

Adam shrieks outright when she bends down suddenly to mouth over his cock, her lips wrapping around the head and swallowing him whole. His toes curl and he tries kicking her again but it’s all so fucking pointless he doesn’t know why he keeps trying. He feels so weak and limp, still overly buzzed with alcohol and weed and probably a concussion; there’s not much he can do.

He cries and moans throughout all of it as her head bobs up and down with enthusiasm, slurping around his dick, his body reacting positively to her touch while his mind is screaming a litany of _no’s_ and _please stop_.

She pulls off at the last second before he can come and wipes her mouth, looking pleased with herself, but her face morphs into one of anger when she sees him crying. “Don’t be such a wuss,” she admonishes.

Adam whimpers in response, his nose sniffling because he can’t seem to stop crying no matter how much he tries to convince himself this is just sex and it will be over soon.

He wishes he was stronger.

She backhands him and his head snaps to the side, her rings cutting up his face and leaving shallow scrapes along his cheekbone. She grabs a fistful of his hair and forces him to look up at her and he does, blinking blearily. “Are you worried about your stupid wife?” she asks, staring at him like he’s insane, like she doesn't understand him, “You’ve cheated before, baby—I know you have. I’ve read all about it. This won’t surprise her. She probably expects it, you’ve been such a slutty little manwhore.”

He shuts his eyes against her words and tries to calm himself down because panic is bubbling in his chest at the mention of Behati and it’s getting harder to breathe, he’s so fucking scared.

He might have done some shitty things in the past but he would _never_ do that to his wife now, not willingly, not with how amazing she is and how much he loves her. Behati made him a better person and he doesn’t want to lose her just because he was too stupid and weak to fight off some 130-pound chick.

He’s cheating but he doesn’t mean it this time, doesn’t even want it.

He hopes his wife will understand. 

If she doesn't, Brooke might as well kill him.

Brooke slips her underwear aside with a hand and straddles him. “We’re gonna fuck now,” she says, like that’s a normal thing to say, like it’s something he wants to hear and is going to enjoy.

He moans when she lowers herself onto him after quickly rolling a ribbed condom over his length, her tight heat squeezing him just right and making him gasp in pleasure, his hips rocking upward.

 _Stop_ , he thinks as she starts to move, her knees gripping either side of his waist as she rides him. _Please, please stop._

A moan escapes him as she moves faster and he bucks up to meet her thrusts without even meaning to, his entire body thrumming with pleasure even though he feels on the verge of throwing up and he can’t stop crying.

He's so fucking weak. He had no idea how weak he really was until now, how stupid.

He turns his head to the side again and tries to think about something else, tries to think of a way to get himself out of this but there’s nothing he can do while he’s tied down and so sick he can barely move without getting queasy or hurting his head further.

The physical pleasure he’s feeling coupled with the mental trauma he’s experiencing is enough to make his body go numb with shock, his limbs cold and tingly as his heart pounds wildly in his chest, his mouth feeling numb.

He feels distant, his gaze focused somewhere on the wall to his right and he spaces out, his eyes unfocused.

It’s too late to fight anymore. The damage is done.

He tries to pretend it’s Behati on top of him but he can’t; his wife would never be so cruel with him.

Brooke makes the most lewd noises he’s ever heard in his life, breathy and loud as she takes what she wants from him, soft moans of pleasure escaping her. She bounces on top of him fast enough to make his head spin, to make him feel like he's going to explode with just how good it feels to be inside her, her tits jiggling around in her bra, rolling her hips in such a way that has him keening loudly past his sobs.

He shudders through his orgasm listlessly, shaking and quivering as he empties himself into the condom. She comes with a shout soon afterward and slumps over him, breathing heavily and gripping his shoulders tight enough to leave bruises.

She leans down and kisses him sloppily along his neck, giggling. “See how good that was? You were perfect.”

When he doesn’t respond, she strikes him across the face again and he snaps back into partial awareness, his body chilled and clammy as he looks up at her.

She smiles down at him and then steps off the bed. “I’m gonna get us a little something extra to play with,” she tells him brightly, walking naked across the room to where her purse is lying on the floor next to Adam’s clothes.

She reaches inside and pulls out something long and purple.

Adam loses it when he sees what it is, sobbing pathetically through his gag and pulling weakly at his restraints because she’s coming at him with a fucking _dildo_ and he really doesn’t think she’s planning on using it on herself.

Brooke gets back on the bed and pushes his legs up as far as they’ll go, exposing him.

He shrieks and throws a fit, twisting like a madman on the sheets and trying to close his legs.

His stomach is in knots—he can’t let her do this, it’s too much.

She presses the tip of it against his hole and makes him lay still with another tight unforgiving hand on his dick, jerking him off even though he’s oversensitive and soft. She looks at him prettily from between his legs.

And then she shoves the dildo in, ramming it up inside him with one quick fluid motion.

Adam screams.

Even with the sock in his mouth, it’s high and loud and bound to catch someone’s attention. Brooke hits him for it, slicing up his face with her rings again as she works the dildo into him roughly, fucking him with it while reaching down with her other hand to touch herself. The weird angle she's using makes it even more painful, the toy brutally ripping him wide open and blinding him with agony.

He sobs frantically, hysterical, begging her to stop as he feels his inner muscles tear and bleed at the cruel way she’s forcing the dildo in and out of him. It feels like he’s being skinned alive and he wants it stop but he can’t move, can’t even think straight, too battered and sore and drunk to do anything but just lay there and take it.

He feels like he might actually pass out this time, the excruciating pain she’s causing him enough to make him feel lightheaded and nauseous, shock pouring over him once more in waves. He feels blood trickle out of him, staining the sheets beneath him.

It goes on for several minutes.

He keeps crying, thinking it will never stop. It hurts so much. He never thought anything could hurt like this.

Then—then there’s a noise outside the door, something like footsteps.

He's certain he’s imagined it but thinks maybe he didn't when Brooke stops her ministrations, freezing on the spot as she listens, too.

A blissfully familiar, southern voice calls out, “Adam?” from somewhere down the hallway.

_Blake._

Hope soars in his chest. 

Adam screams through the gag, shrill and piercing, and keeps screaming for his friend even when Brooke launches herself on top of him and tries to shut him up with her hands around his throat again, choking him, the dildo still hanging out of his ass.

He wheezes and gurgles but still keeps making enough noise until he hears Blake on the other side of the door, the knob jiggling as he tries to open it.

“Adam?!”

He screams, and screams, and _screams_ until he’s hoarse and his throat is raw and he can no longer breathe, Brooke’s fingers pressing down on his throat cruelly, his vision darkening.

“ADAM!”

Blake is trying to get inside, pounding loudly on the door, probably throwing himself against it.

There's another voice outside, commotion stirring.

Brooke curses and lets him go, jumping off the bed and trying to gather her clothes quickly, heading for the window.

The door splinters open and she yelps, reaching for the baseball bat and holding it up in front of her like a weapon.

It’s still covered in Adam’s blood and Blake comes to a stop in the doorway, staring at it in mute horror, taking in the sight in front of him, his eyes darting between Adam on the bed and Brooke standing next to it.

When it dawns on him what's going on, his expression goes from worried and concerned to _murderous_ in just a matter of seconds.

Adam lays there trembling, sobbing weakly and coughing and trying to breathe, and watches with watering eyes and a frantic heart as Brooke tries to smash the baseball bat into the country singer’s head.

She misses and Blake snatches it from her with ease, tossing it across the room. He's nothing but six and a half feet of towering pissed-off Okie as he marches up to her, his features dark and livid. He grabs her by the shoulders viciously, not at all like he had earlier, and drags her outside the room, throwing her out into the hallway carelessly where someone else—someone Adam can’t see from his position on the bed—is waiting.

“Get her the fuck out of here,” Blake snarls at whoever is out there, his face beet red with anger, “and call the police, tell them she attacked someone, and _don’t fucking let her loose_.”

He slams the door shut after that and Adam distantly hears Brooke screaming and cursing at whoever is trying to manhandle her back down the stairs, probably scratching at them with her nails.

It’s quiet after that, so fucking quiet after what feels like hours of endless noise and torment, and Adam lets out a low sob, pulling weakly again at his bonds in a futile attempt to get free.

“Adam, _buddy_ ,” Blake croaks and is right there next to him suddenly, unraveling the knots tying him to the bed quickly with big, clumsy hands and letting them fall soundlessly to the floor.

The moment he’s free, Adam pulls the sock out of his mouth and rips the tape off and then it’s like something erupts in his chest, in his soul, because he starts sobbing even harder, can’t even find the strength to lift himself out of bed.

Blake tries to shush him, running his fingers through his hair and touching his face with so much gentleness it makes Adam cry even harder, curling into himself as much as he can with the dildo still poking out of him.

It’s over but he still feels dirty.

She's gone but he still feels used.

“Buddy, I’m gonna—” Blake sounds like he’s near tears, his voice clogged and on the edge of breaking. “I’m gonna try and remove it, okay? It’s—it’s gonna hurt.”

It does hurt— _a lot_ , and Adam cries out even more once the dildo is gone, covering his mouth with his hands and trying to calm down as Blake throws the toy to the ground and hovers cautiously.

He feels so stupid and embarrassed, so _ashamed._

Blake touches him on the shoulder and he shies away from it, frightened.

“Adam—” Blake rasps, sounding just as broken and upset as Adam feels. “It’s okay, buddy, you’re okay now.”

He’s not; he’s been humiliated and beaten and fucked and scared out of his mind, has had unwanted hands touching him and shoving things inside him that had hurt and left him open and raw.

He doesn’t even want Blake looking at him but at the same time he wants nothing more than for the country singer to stay with him and keeping lying to him, keep telling him he’s okay and everything is all right.

It feels like a bad nightmare. It doesn't seem real, like none of it actually happened, but his bruised throat and sore backside tell him otherwise, make him cry even more.

He's so embarrassed and hurt he just wants to die.

He can’t do that, though—all he can do is curl up in a pathetic ball and weep into his hands, barely even registering it when Blake drapes a sheet over him to cover him up, when he kneels down on the floor at the side of the bed and presses tender kisses to Adam’s forehead and nose, a big hand tangled in his hair.

Blake shushes him and whispers nonsensical things as he cries, their foreheads pressed together as they wait out his emotional breakdown but Adam’s not sure he’ll ever stop crying.

It feels like he could go on for ages.

He tries not to look at Blake and keeps his eyes fixed on the opposite wall, his gaze just inches away from Blake’s face but he won’t look—he doesn’t want to see that pity, that concern swirling in those bright blue eyes, making him feel bad for being so stupid.

He should be stronger but he’s not.

He’s just weak.


	2. Chapter 2

He has no idea how long he lays there on the bed.

Time passes but it feels like nothing, feels like just a mere blink.

His mind is suspiciously numb aside from quick flashes of memory that make him twitch and shudder with just how much he’d rather forget them. It’s like an endless loop in his brain that keeps making him relive what happened to him, makes him think about how stupid he was to let it happen in the first place. He shouldn’t have gotten so drunk; he might’ve been able to do more to save himself if he hadn’t been so wasted.

He’s just an idiot, that’s all there is to it. What kind of guy lets a woman overpower him like that?

A stupid one, that’s what.

He still can’t even believe it happened, thinks occasionally that if he closes his eyes it will all just have been a nasty dream when he opens them again but that’s not the case and every time he tries he’s just faced with the harsh reality that yes, it did happen, and yes, he’s gonna have to deal with it.

He just doesn’t know how.

More than anything, he just wants a hole to appear in the ground and swallow him up so he doesn’t have to think about this anymore, so he can hide from the world and the pitying glances everyone is going to give him once they find out what happened.

He doesn’t know if he can deal with that, with people _knowing_.

Hell, Blake _saw_ what happened, and that alone makes him want to die ten times over.

The country singer is still kneeling down on the floor at his side, leaning on the bed with his elbows, his hands carding gently through his hair, comforting and soothing like Adam’s never seen him before.

Adam still won’t look at him. He’s been staring at the wall across the room for God knows how long but it’s all he can do; if he tears his gaze away from it, he thinks he might crack again, and he really doesn’t want that because getting attacked and having Blake see him weep like a fucking baby as a result is already way more than he can handle.

There’s only so much embarrassment he can take in one night.

His cries have quietened since—since _it_ happened and now he just hiccups quietly every now and then, his hands fisted around his mouth to stifle the worst of the sobs that still want to come pouring out despite he’s already cried enough to fill an entire ocean.

Blake stopped talking to him a while ago and he’s kinda happy about that, too, because even while it felt good to be told over and over that he’s going to be okay, that he’s safe now, it was a little misleading to hear as well because he _knows_ he’s not okay. He’s the farthest from okay he’s ever been. He’s never felt like this before and it makes him wonder if he’ll ever be okay again because right now? It doesn’t feel like it. Not at fucking all.

He feels like a bus could hit him and it still wouldn’t hurt this much.

The party is still going on downstairs but he tries not to think about it, how everyone is down there still drinking and laughing and moving on with their lives like nothing major just happened when for Adam it’s the exact opposite and it amazes him, really, how people are just _unaware_ of his situation, how shit like this must happen all the time and everyone just has no fucking clue.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he jerks back and shrieks like a wounded animal when there’s a knock at the door, startling him and making his heart jump to his throat. He pulls his knees closer to his chest and hunches further down into the sheet Blake had draped over him, trying to hide from whoever is wanting to come in. He doesn’t want anyone to see him—if they see him, they’ll know what happened, and he can’t deal with that.

The door opens a crack and Blake curses, pulling the sheet up further around Adam’s shoulders to keep him hidden. “Who is it?” he snaps, leaning forward just a tad to block the view of Adam’s body with his own, protective.

“It’s me,” a voice says softly and Adam blinks because—it’s Craig?

What the fuck?

Blake relaxes a bit and out of the corner of his eye Adam sees Craig poke his head in. “I just—”

“I told you to stay with that bitch,” Blake growls, his voice low but dangerous, accusing.

“Pharrell’s got her, man,” Craig answers, unfazed by the country star’s attitude, gentle and soft-spoken like Adam and Blake are both spooked animals that he needs to corral. “I just—I wanted to tell you, the police are here.”

Oh Jesus—Craig was the one who had been out there in the hallway? The one Blake had tossed Brooke out to like she was nothing? _God,_ having his friend and fellow coach know about this was one thing but one of their contestants, too? Fuck.

Adam shrinks down further into the bed, humiliated tears pressing at his eyes again. This is so messed up.

“I also, um—” Craig clears his throat awkwardly, “I also called an ambulance, since—since it looks like he needs one.”

He says that last part in a whisper, like Adam can’t hear him, and the pop singer feels a sudden irrational surge of anger shoot through him because he’s not fucking invisible, he’s not a damn child, he’s right here, listening to every word with a thunderous heart and a lump in his throat.

Blake breathes out a sigh, releasing tension, still blocking Craig’s view of Adam with his own body. “All right,” he breathes, thankful but still sounding annoyed and bitter, “Just—just get out.”

The door clicks shut.

They’re both alone again.

Adam distantly hears Craig’s footsteps as he disappears back downstairs.

Blake lets out another heavy sigh and kneels back down on the floor, going right back to sliding his fingers through Adam’s hair. “You doing okay?” he asks softly. They both freeze at the same time and Blake scoffs, shaking his head, “Stupid question, sorry.”

Adam relaxes and focuses on the wall again, blinking back more tears that threaten to spill.

“Can you look at me, bud?”

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, tucking it beneath the sheet until only his hair is visible.

Blake rests a hand on the top of his head, fingers sifting through the dark strands of hair there. “C’mon, little one, just for a sec. Let me see you.”

Adam feels his heart pound and his stomach churn with nausea but he lowers the sheet and opens his eyes because Blake sounds so calm and sincere and he’s curious about what that looks like. He raises his gaze slowly, hesitantly.

Blake looks just about as he suspected—composed, but with a worried edge that makes his eyes bluer and wetter, practically sparkling in the low light of the room, and he looks so fucking upset it makes Adam want to cry again but he holds it back this time, swallows the harsh sobs that threaten to flood his chest. He doesn’t know why Blake is being so kind when Adam has screwed up as bad as he did. This is the kind of material for jokes, right? Poor Adam can’t defend himself, can’t fight off a chick with the waist size of a broomstick, is too fucking _pathetic_ to save himself.

It should be hysterical but Blake would be the only one laughing. Adam would probably cry again.

Except Blake _isn’t_ laughing—he’s tender and sweet instead, calling him ‘little one’ instead of the usual ‘asshole’ or ‘jackass’ that often accompany his insults or praises, his entire persona radiating sorrow and sympathy instead of barely contained laughter.

It’s weird and Adam can’t wrap his head around it, has no idea how to respond.

He’s still staring up at Blake and the country singer smiles just barely enough for his dimples to poke through. “There you are,” he notes, soft but light, fingertips still tracing patterns on Adam’s scalp, “There’s that pretty face I know so well.”

Adam freezes.

_Such a **pretty** little fuckboy._

The words burst inside his head like a firework and Adam’s eyes snap shut again, a harsh gasp whooshing past his lips and choking off the next breath he tries to take. He shudders and tries to curl into himself more but the movement pulls at his backside and he whimpers, tears clinging to his lashes at the pain that shoots through him.

“Whoa, buddy, hey,” Blake tries to soothe, worried, one hand still tangled in his hair while the other rests gently on the side of his neck. “You’re okay—you’re okay now, I promise. You’re all right, darlin’. I’m sorry—”

Adam shakes his head, entire body quivering, pulling the sheet up to cover his mouth because he’s crying again and he feels like an idiot but there’s not much he can do to stop it. His throat burns as strangled little noises escape him, his face heated with shame.

This is ridiculous. He’s so stupid.

Why is he such a baby?

He manages to calm down a little while Blake patiently smooches his forehead and rubs his thumb along his cheekbone, wiping away the tears there, but he still feels like there’s a monster trying to claw its way out of his chest, like he’s always just one second away from breaking down again.

His body is still numb but he doesn’t know if it’s from shock or from the alcohol and drugs still coursing through his system—or if it’s just a weird combination of both, but whatever it is, it lessens the hurt a little bit. He knows he’s in pain but it’s all a distant feeling for him right now.

He can’t focus on it.

It’s probably a good thing.

He doesn’t want to feel much of anything right now.

There’s another knock at the door and this time Blake stands up and leaves him, crossing the room in a few strides to open the door and step out into the hallway. Adam feels achingly alone without him there suddenly, and his fingers twitch with how much he wants to latch onto Blake and keep him close.

Why did he leave so quickly? He doesn’t understand.

He waits with bated breath as he listens to the country singer quietly whisper with whoever is out there. Is it Craig again? He can’t tell.

Blake comes back inside and kneels next to him again. Adam grabs at his shirt sleeve, holding on, telling him to stay, to not leave again.

“The medics are here, buddy,” Blake whispers, and Adam looks out into the hallway and sure enough, there’s two men standing there waiting for permission to come inside, equipment in hand. “You think they can take a look at you?”

Adam shudders and wipes his face hurriedly with the sheet. He doesn’t want anyone poking and prodding him, but he knows it’s necessary. He might not be able to feel it right now but he knows he’s hurt bad down there and it probably needs looking at. He clings to Blake’s wrist, uncertain.

“I’ll be right here the whole time if you want me,” Blake promises, reading his mind, understanding his hesitation like he’s an open book, “I won’t leave for a second, I swear.”

He’s not sure he has a choice, given his current condition, but having his friend with him will make it a little more bearable.

Maybe.

He nods slowly, tightening his hold on Blake’s shirt sleeve. It’s flannel; he doesn’t wear a lot of flannel, despite being as country as they come. Adam wonders why that is and stares at the checkered patterns on the sleeve as Blake motions for the paramedics to come inside the room.

They do, and both of the men are gentle and kind, the complete opposite of what Adam expected them to be. They don’t laugh at him and instead they check his pupils and his pulse, his breathing, his heartrate, all the basics. He wonders as they check his blood pressure if they could tell he had been smoking and drinking prior to all this, if he really looks that bad, or if Blake had told them.

The EMT with the blond hair asks him to roll over onto his back and pull his knees up.

Adam tries but the second he moves the pain shoots through him like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping and whimpering, keeping him frozen on the spot, reminding him why he was staying so still in the first place. They tell him to breathe through it and move slowly. Blake crawls up on the bed with him, pillowing Adam’s head in his lap, comforting and soothing. He helps Adam roll over with his hands underneath his shoulders.

Adam pulls his knees up slowly, his cheeks reddening when the EMT kneels between his legs and pulls the sheet back to take a look at him.

A gloved finger prods gently around his entrance and he jerks away automatically, his knees trying to close together, a scream ready on his lips.

“It’s okay, honey,” Blake shushes him, reaching down to take one of Adam’s hands in his own as the second paramedic holds his legs apart while the other continues his inspection. Adam sniffles, feeling humiliated and stupid, his eyes welling with tears again.

He tries to remind himself that this is all routine and it needs to be done, but it feels so invasive, so controlling, it feels like _she’s_ touching him all over again, his power over the situation slipping right out of his fingers.

How many people are going to see him naked tonight? He wants to die, he’s so embarrassed.

He squeezes Blake’s hand hard when the medic has to prod a little further inside him and Blake squeezes back just as much, his thumb rubbing light patterns on his knuckles. He lets out a high-pitched whine when the pain gets too much but thankfully the EMT raises up and pulls back, taking off his gloves.

“There’s some damage but it doesn’t look like you need stitches,” he says, looking at his partner and then back to Adam, “We’ll get you to the hospital and get you patched up, okay?”

Adam nods because it seems like that’s what they want him to do and right now he just wants to get this over with, wants to make them stop looking at him like he’s some pitiful kid who scraped his knee on the sidewalk and can’t stop crying about it.

“What about—what about her?” Blake bites out, his tone cautious, and everyone in the room knows who he’s talking about right away even though he doesn’t say her name.

The second paramedic answers, “Police had her cuffed downstairs when we came in. They’re clearing everybody out so we can get Mr. Levine out of here without causing a scene.”

Right, because there’s a good hundred people downstairs and they can’t just walk past them. Adam bites his tongue. He hopes there aren’t any reporters lurking around or any party lingerers who want to stick around and see what all this fuss is about. He hopes they can get out without anyone seeing them.

“Do you think you can walk downstairs?” one of them asks. “We can get the stretcher up here but it’ll be easier if you can make it down yourself.”

He knows how winding and twisting the staircase and the hallways are and already feels ashamed at the thought of making them have to try and maneuver a stretcher through all of that.

“I’ll help him get down,” Blake offers readily, his hand tightening on Adam’s, “Just make sure everyone’s cleared out down there and I’ll get him to you.”

The EMT’s nod and pack up their stuff, exiting the room in a haste to get everything ready. They grab Adam’s clothes on the way out to bag as evidence and leave him an extra uniform they had for him to put on when he’s ready.

Blake kisses the top of his head and looks down at him. “You wanna try walking or do you want me to carry you?”

Adam makes an effort to push himself up because he’d rather maintain some of his masculinity and walk down there himself than have Blake carry him to the ambulance like he’s a blushing bride or some shit. He gets as far as sitting up when the pain hits him and fuck, he’s suddenly so frustrated. He can’t even fucking move without hurting and a _woman_ did this to him and it’s so fucking stupid.

He’s so fucking stupid.

His anger fuels him to keep trying, to put on a brave face for the sake of what little dignity he has left and get himself out of bed.

Blake hovers and helps him slide into the paramedic uniform, zipping his trousers and buttoning the shirt for him. Adam wants to snap at him that he can do this on his own but he thinks better of it when he glances up and sees how fucking worried Blake looks right now, reminds himself that the country star is doing this because he cares and is actually a good friend when it comes down to it.

And probably because Adam is a fucking mess, so fucking pitiful.

But Blake is too nice to mention that.

He knows it’s true, though. It goes without saying.

Blake keeps a steady hand on his lower back as Adam wobbles across the room, forcing back all the little gasps of pain and winces the movement is causing him and trying to stay strong so maybe at least Blake won’t secretly think he’s too pathetic.

He makes it halfway down the hallway before his knees give out and Blake catches him deftly, swooping down and back up with his arms around him tight like a vice, his big hands under Adam’s thighs as he holds him up against him.

Adam squirms, breathless and embarrassed.

“I gotcha,” Blake whispers in his ear, warm breath hot on his neck. “I gotcha, darlin’. Just hold on tight.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in Blake’s shoulder, hiding, trying to appear small so maybe if there’s anyone left downstairs they won’t think Adam is a big baby who can’t even walk on his own two feet, they’ll just think he’s sleeping or something. Each step Blake takes pulls uncomfortably at his backside but no matter how much Adam shifts the pain never goes away so he just bites the inside of his cheek and hides, waiting.

They make it downstairs and Adam doesn’t hear any voices or confused whispers so the police must have done a good job in clearing everyone out.

It’s when they get outside that there’s a problem.

The paramedics are there waiting with the stretcher, but so are about a dozen reporters.

Their cameras flash wildly the moment Blake steps out of the house with Adam in his arms, excited voices shooting out questions a mile a minute. Adam opens his eyes and the camera lights are almost blinding. He flinches and tries to shrink back but Blake has a tight hold on him.

“Fuck,” the country singer hisses, turning his back to the cameras so maybe at least no one will see too much of Adam. “Honestly, what the fuck?”

“Get him on the stretcher,” the blond EMT orders hurriedly, gesturing at them both.

Adam blearily notices police officers trying to shoo away the paparazzi, pushing them back with force and loud verbal threats.

Tears start leaking out of his eyes again and he turns his face away from them, hiding in the crook of Blake’s neck once more so no one will snap a picture of him crying. He wonders who tipped off the press, or if maybe they somehow just already knew about what happened to him and came to look for themselves.

He also wonders where Craig is, where Pharrell had gone. They had known. They knew what happened to him.

Did they do this? He has no idea.

He hopes not.

Blake lowers him onto the stretcher and stays there at his side, shielding him from the cameras. Adam stares up at the darkened sky as the medics wheel him to the ambulance, wiping his face with a hand and biting his lip not to cry even more.

So stupid.

They load him into the ambulance and Adam starts in surprise when he notices Blake isn’t with him anymore.

He raises his head in alarm and sees the country singer standing at his feet, outside the vehicle, looking for all the world like someone took his puppy and kicked it off a cliff. His eyes are blue and frantic, wide and apologetic.  

“Blake?” Adam tries to call out but the words fall short on the tip of his tongue. All that comes out is a tiny croak.

“I’ll follow behind in my truck, buddy,” Blake assures him, looking sorry but resolved. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna call Behati and we’ll both be there at the hospital waiting for ya, okay?”

Oh God, no.

Adam shakes his head frantically despite the dizziness it causes him.

His wife can’t know. She can’t—she can’t be there, she can’t see this. She’ll leave him once she realizes what he did, that he cheated on her.

He’s been so careful in avoiding thinking about her this whole time because it hurts when he does, makes him feel like the worst scum on earth, makes his heart shrivel up inside his chest.

He keeps shaking his head, trying to communicate to Blake that he doesn’t want him to call her. His breathing quickens and he tries to get the words out, tries to tell Blake ‘no’ but his mouth feels funny and the connection between his brain and his tongue somehow breaks, leaving him speechless.

“Adam! Adam, calm down—” he distantly hears Blake trying to soothe him, trying to get to him.

He's panicking. He knows that, and yet he can't seem to stop. 

He wants Blake to come with him. He wants Blake to be at the hospital with him, not his wife. Not—not her, not yet.

 _Please come with me,_ he thinks frantically, trying to look at Blake but there are hands pinning him down, keeping him still. _Please don’t go._

He shuts his eyes because his vision is starting to darken anyways and he hears his breathing, harsh and ragged, quicker than it’s ever been, but it feels like he’s in a muted bubble—everything just echoes, feels outside of him, far away and unintelligible. There’s yelling and then the doors slam shut and he doesn’t hear Blake’s voice anymore; he loses that connection too.

Someone shakes him. There are hands all over him and he panics, trying to twist away, trying to find Blake, trying to get back to him.

There’s a sharp prick in his arm, something covering his mouth, and then everything slips away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind words and encouragement so far. You're all amazing!

**Author's Note:**

> *scurries away*


End file.
